Stolen
by Trunks lil' sis
Summary: What Karofsky stole from him was worse than all of the years of physical, verbal and emotional abuse combined.


**Stolen**

Title: Stolen

Author: Jen

Rating: Teen

Warnings: Spoilers for 2.06 (Never Been Kissed)

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The thing was, Kurt had never been under an illusions concerning his first kiss. He'd known since the age of five that he was different, and by the time he was old enough to know what that difference meant, he was also old enough to understand how the world operated. He was certain that most girls, and likely a fair share of boys, imagined a magical, romantic and breathtaking moment. Kurt had always just hoped for a little authenticity. He had always realistically reminded himself that it didn't matter if it happened under a starry night, or in the backseat of a Chevy, or anywhere in between. He just wanted the kiss to be the real deal, and to feel like it.

Instead he'd gotten his worst nightmare. He'd been robbed, and the feeling he was left with was unimaginable, untreatable and heartbreaking. He'd had his first kiss stolen from him, by a dumb jock who wasn't man enough to do more than suppress his sexual attraction. It had been stolen by someone who hadn't deserved to have it, and Kurt felt violated.

At first there had been nothing but shock. He'd stood there, in the boy's locker room, for what must have been forever. Shoulders shaking, and his breathing hitched, he was unable to move. He blinked back tears, refusing to be degraded any further, and then rushed to his SUV the moment his legs began to function again.

No one was home when he arrived and Kurt was thankful. He couldn't imagine explaining his appearance to his father. He knew he looked a mess, with a pale face and blotchy cheeks. His eyes had to be red, and his lips were aching in a way that was telling of how hard he'd been kissed. They were surely puffy, and his father would spot them a mile away.

There was a hot shower calling to him and Kurt made is way towards his bathroom with achingly slow speed. He shed his clothes as he moved, and by the time he reached his bathroom he was naked, standing in front of his mirror, watching his reflection.

He knew, of course, that he wasn't attractive, or at least no one had ever mentioned so. His father had always referred to him as adorable, in his younger years, and then handsome recently, but father's opinions didn't count. Mercedes said he was cute, and Tina concurred, but then the both of them also thought it was appropriate to wear white after Labor Day so Kurt wasn't entirely keen to trust in them. After all, when he looked in the mirror all he saw was skin too ashen, a body too small for his gender, and exaggerated features that disassociated him with being male more than his voice. Brittany had called him pretty once, and Kurt supposed he might have been, if he'd been born a girl. But attractive? Attractive was something he was not.

There was plenty of hot water for him and he climbed into the shower gingerly, bracing his hands on the front wall and letting the spray rain down on him. It was too hot, and he'd be nothing but a pink mess afterward, but he could still taste Karofsky on him. The jock was on his lips where he'd been kissed, his neck where he'd been touched, and everywhere else that his eyes had wandered. Kurt just wanted to be clean. He had to be.

After the shower there were soft pajamas to crawl into, and by half past the noon hour he was curled up on his bed, hugging a pillow to his chest, praying his father would work late at the shop.

The slam of the front door echoed down to him less than an hour later and Kurt clenched his eyes closed, suddenly feeling a prickling sensation. It was distasteful to him, that he'd managed to hold himself together for the entire amount of time he'd been alone, and yet the moment his father arrived home he was on the verge of loosing all semblance of control. He squeezed harder on the pillow and willed himself to be strong.

"Kurt?"

His father's voice called out and it wasn't hard to guess the SUV had been spotted in the driveway.

Clearing his throat, Kurt answered, "Down here, dad."

Burt's boots were heavy on the stairs as he descended into the basement. The man lingered at the base, then asked carefully, "Not feeling good today?"

Kurt tried not to sniffle and nodded. "Upset stomach."

"You got a test today?"

"No." His voice was barely above a whisper. He wasn't sure he could handle anymore.

His father could be dumb at times, or maybe just average, but he could also be quick witted, and Kurt understood the rouse was up the moment his father moved a little closer and was able to clearly see him mumbling, "You've been crying." And his father had never quite known how to handle Kurt when he cried, it had always been his mother's jurisdiction. His mother had always known the right words to say, and oddly enough, his father had always hugged away the tears. They were vastly different parenting styles that Kurt loved equally.

"It's okay, I'm not," Kurt said, but then he really was. The tears couldn't be stopped, and the moment he started in, it got harder to breathe. His head tightened up, his nose ran and he was barely able to register a dip in the bed, at least not until his father was leaning over him in a distinctly protective manner.

"What's going on?" his father asked in a confused tone. He slipped one hand up Kurt's back and the other anchored at his shoulder. "You miss out on some sale at the mall?"

It would have probably sounded insulting to a bystander, but to Kurt it was laughable. His father was pretty clueless when it came to comforting him, relying of feel and instinct and pure love, and it was why he could never take any of his father's words as malicious. His father was not deliberately insulting, and there was no way he could have known Kurt had, only a few hours previous, been robbed of something he'd both loathed and cherished.

"I swear," Kurt cried out, nose digging into the flannel of his father's shirt, "I'm okay. I'm okay. I'm okay." In a lot of ways, he felt robotic. He wasn't okay, but he had to pretend to be. He could feel himself start to break, and before long he'd shatter.

"You're not," Burt shushed at him, urging Kurt further into his hold. "You're … god, Kurt, you're not okay. What's going on? Are you hurt?"

"School was hard today," Kurt said bluntly, rubbing a palm into his eye. It was getting easier to speak, and each word was less punctuated by a dramatic breath, a good sign that his crying had been severe, but short. "You know those days, where everything is horrible and you just want it to end?"

Wordlessly, Burt nodded.

"It was like that." Boneless, Kurt flopped completely against his father. "A really horrible day."

"Okay," Burt said easily. "We all have them, Kurt. I understand."

He didn't, and Kurt was tempted, very tempted to tell him as much, but it was stress neither of them needed. If he spilled about the stolen kiss, or worse, that Karofsky had tried to steal a second, he could barely imagine what his father's reaction would be. Of course, Kurt could likely imagine that it would have a lot to do with the double barrel, pump action shotgun that they kept in the guest room's closet. His father was a shoot first, and demand information later kind of father, and Kurt hated to see him exercise that kind of reaction to a bad situation.

"How about we talk about it?"

"No," Kurt insisted. "I just … I have a headache." And he really did feel sick. Ever since the locker room his stomach had been flopping about, threatening to rebel against him and the wheat pancakes he'd indulged in that morning. "I want to lay down, if that's alright."

"Of course." His father snapped to guide him down into a better position, and Kurt certainly enjoyed the way the blanket was tucked around him, and the way his forehead was kissed.

Kurt watched his father moved silently to the stairs, and barely managed not to call him back. He missed the days when he'd napped together, and cuddled together while watching a movie. There were plenty of hugs these days, and it never failed when one of them fell sick, the other was pressed in close with heaps of comfort, but it was different now that Kurt was older. It wasn't practical for him to imagine that his father would be okay to just lay with him on the bed, and hold him close and not ask questions or feel awkward.

"Kurt?"

"Hm?" Kurt's eyes felt itchy from the crying, but the Kleenex was all the way across the room.

A hand on the railing, Burt's eyes narrowed. He asked, "You know you can tell me anything, right? Anything."

His voice squeaked out, "I know."

"Alright," Burt said slowly. "Just so long as you know." He took a couple more steps, adding, "I'll go see if I can find that colored tea you like so much."

"Green tea," Kurt offered, his face begging to pull into a smile. "And I would prefer if you didn't. I don't want you in the kitchen if I'm not there to supervise."

His father's scowled. "I told you I wouldn't leave the dishtowel on the stove again. I should get a free pass the first time I catch something on fire."

"Maybe the first time each month."

Burt shook his head. "Get some rest, kid. I'll check on you later."

With the pillow clutched impossibly to his chest, Kurt called out, "Dad?" He did smile then, at the way his father not only stopped, but came back down a few steps. "Thanks."

Burt smiled back gently. "No problem."

It felt to Kurt like the warmth left with his father, and then it was just him and his cold, gray room, and the amplified loss he felt in his chest. Tears threatened once more and Kurt nearly spilled out of his bed, reaching for his jeans on the nearby floor with the phone in the pocket.

Blaine had said, as he'd programmed his number into Kurt's phone, "Call me sometime, or text me. Anytime you want, okay, Kurt? If you need to talk, I'm here, or if you just want to, that's good, too. I'm giving you my number for a reason. Don't be a stranger."

This was a situation, Kurt realized, that couldn't be shared with anyone else. Maybe it was even wrong to share it with Blaine, but the only other alternative was self imposed deprivation and Kurt wasn't sure he could survive that kind of isolation. Not after he'd been so bluntly and so forcefully assaulted. Sexually assaulted.

"Blaine," he choked out as the other teen answered after several rings. "Blaine, I need your help. I don't know what to do."

"Woah, woah," Blaine's voice came through clear. "Take a second and catch your breath there, Kurt. What's wrong?"

Kurt's eyes flew to his staircase, desperate to know his father wasn't listening in. When he was sure he managed a deep breath and then confessed, "He kissed me, Blaine. I confronted him in the locker room like you said to and then he kissed me. Help me."

Blaine was quiet for a moment, and Kurt was terrified, but then he heard, "Okay, unexpected, but not entirely unimaginable. Kurt, I'm going to talk you through this. Concentrate on my voice. You got that?"

"Yes," Kurt breathed out. "What should I do?"


End file.
